


Just Friends

by PrincessMig



Series: 50 Sentence Prompts [1]
Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brief mentions of alcoholism, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, M/M, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Swearing, brief homophobic language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 23:00:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21876928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessMig/pseuds/PrincessMig
Summary: "We're not just friends and you fucking know it!"Part one of a 50 part prompt list. Richie and Eddie run into one of Eddie's new coworkers at the grocery store. It doesn't go well.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: 50 Sentence Prompts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1576021
Comments: 12
Kudos: 209





	Just Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to this first thing I've written in 5 years! Eat your hearts out!

In hindsight, Richie knew this was going to happen. After nearly 30 years of dealing with his repressed homosexuality and internalized homophobia, he _knew_ coming to terms with, well, everything was going to be hard.

But he hadn’t expected it to come from Eddie, of all people.

And he especially hadn’t expected it to hurt this much.

It had started out innocently enough. They had to make a run to the grocery store for something or another. Richie couldn’t remember. It hadn’t necessarily required both of them to go, but together they went. And why wouldn’t they? They’ve been doing everything together since Eddie flew back to L.A. with him instead of back to New York, where his now-ex-wife had been anxiously awaiting his return.

A whole year of living together, of couple’s therapy, _individual_ therapy, and nearly half a dozen “Insert Poison of Choice Here” Anonymous groups between the two of them (who knew there was such a thing as Hypochondriac’s Anonymous? Not Richie, that was for sure).

And, oh, they had been making such huge personal _strides_. If Richie-from-now could run into Richie-3-years-ago, he’d probably punch that greasy-haired douchebag in the face.

So when they ran into one of Eddie’s new coworkers, Richie hadn’t thought anything of it--just introduced himself, all casual and the like, and didn’t even notice it when Eddie went rigid beside him.

“So, how long have you been dating?”

Richie had opened his mouth to answer (twelve months, one week, and three days since Eddie came home with him, but neither of them had managed to pull their heads out of their asses until about two months later), but Eddie cut him off.

“We’re not dating--we’re just friends.”

And, wow, _ouch_. Holy _shit_ did that hurt. Richie had to focus on the serving suggestions on the back of a box of egg replacer until his eyes weren’t misty anymore.

The walk back to their _shared_ condo was a quiet one (They hadn’t even bought the groceries they needed). Eddie wasn’t bothering to try and start a conversation, which Richie was thankful for, because he did _not_ want to have this conversation in public. Instead he could hear Eddie practicing his deep breathing techniques.

Meanwhile, Richie was trying to remember what their therapist had said about using “I” statements when talking to each other, instead of “You” statements. He could remember past moments when they had come in handy, like early on in their relationship.

For example: “I feel like I’m not being taken seriously” worked a lot better in Richie’s favor than saying “You think everything I do and say is another fucking joke”.

Even Eddie had used them. Being told “I feel like there are times when my triggers are being ignored” made a more lasting impact on him than Eddie screaming “You’re a fucking slob and you do this shit on purpose”.

Richie tries to come up with some on the walk back home. He doubts that saying “I feel like you’re embarrassed by me” is any less accusatory than saying “No, you’re definitely embarrassed by me”, but that’s why Richie pays his therapists the big bucks.

By the time they get back to the condo, they’re both vibrating with the knowledge of the oncoming confrontation. They’ll start off calm (even though Eddie’s eyes will be bigger than Richie’s behind his coke-bottle glasses, and Richie’s nails will be digging crescent moon-shaped scars in his palms where they’re clenched in his pockets). They’ll use words their therapists taught them to use, and phrases they’ve practiced saying in sessions.

But Richie’s motor-mouth is a compulsion he still has trouble controlling, and he keeps interrupting Eddie when it’s his turn to speak, and a man can only be patient with Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier for so long.

“I just feel like it’s none of their business who I’m dating--”

“Or not dating, apparently.”

Eddie closes his eyes and takes several deep breaths. There’s a voice in Richie’s head (that sounds oddly like his older sister) that screams at him to shut the _fuck up_ already.

“I understand that you’re upset--”

“Why would I be upset?” A vein begins to bulge in Eddie’s neck. “We’re just _friends_ , after all. There’s nothing for _me_ to be upset about! Why? Are _you_ upset, Eddie?”

“Richie, I swear to God--”

“We’re just two dudes being bros, after all! Two best fucking friends who live together, share a dresser, suck each other’s dicks once in a while.” Richie grins, all teeth and no sincerity. “Ya know, like friends do.”

And thus, the dam breaks.

“Do you ever fucking _shut up?!”_ Eddie finally yells. “What the fuck is your problem?!”

_“My_ problem?!” Richie shouts back. “I don’t have a problem! Except for the fact that you fucking _lied_ to me!”

Eddie’s face is bright red when he shrieks _“What?!”_

“You told me you were out to your coworkers!” Richie jabs a finger in Eddie’s direction. “We were supposed to come out together, remember? That was your idea!”

“I did--”

“I based my entire career off of that misogynistic heteronormative shit! I had to start my career over from fucking _scratch!_ I’m still starting over!”

“I did come out, asshole!”

Richie takes a step back like he’d been struck. Maybe it would have been better if Eddie had hit him, because somehow the idea that Eddie was out to his coworkers, but didn’t want to be out with _him_ hurts a lot worse than the thought of Eddie just being a liar.

“Oh. Well. That’s okay then,” Richie says, all too quiet and calm. Eddie noticies the shift right away. Of course he would. He’s been living with him for a fucking year, after all. “So everbody at the office knows you’re a fucking _faggot_ , you just don’t want them to know you’re a fag that’s fucking _me_ , is that it?”

“That’s not true and you know it,” Eddie says, stone-faced and angry.

Richie frowns and puts his hands on his hips. “Do I, though? I mean, you just told your coworker not, what? 20 minutes ago? That we were “just friends”, after all.” Richie brings his hands up to make the air quotes around “just friends” and is pretty sure he managed to hurt himself.

“Why does that matter?!”

“Because we’re not just friends and you fucking know it!”

“Why isn’t us knowing it enough for you?!”

(secret, secret, secret, Richie! you gotta keep your dirty secret! gotta keep your hands to yourself, Richie! don’t let the other boys know your dirty little secret, Richie!)

“Why do we have to keep it a secret?! I’m tired of secrets! All these dirty fuckin secrets all the goddamn time--”

“Well, what about you, then!” Eddie shoots back. “You and your fucking Twitter bullshit! You’re getting mad at me for not calling you my boyfriend, or whatever--”

“Or “whatever”?!”

“But you haven’t done anything with me, either!”

If Richie could think logically at this moment, he would know that this is a very good and fair point.

Alas.

“So this is _my_ fault now?!” Richie shouts incredulously. “For not plastering your face all over the internet for God and everyone to see? So you can get bombarded by all these death threats and other gross shit everyday like I do?!”

Eddie takes a step back at that. “You--what?”

“You wanna see what I have to deal with every fucking day? Here--” He pulls out his phone and brings up his Twitter notifications. He tosses his phone to Eddie, who flails but manages to catch it before it hits the ground.

The messages are...mostly not great. A lot of accounts with names that have random numbers in them send one word messages of “fag” or “homo”, and a couple of “kys”’s (which Eddie knows means “kill yourself”, thanks very much, he’s not _that_ old).

“Why don’t you just block them?” Eddie asks, still grasping at the flickering flames of their argument, but it’s fading fast.

“I do,” Richie says. “They just come right back. Too fast for me to get them all.”

Even as Eddie holds the phone, a few more notifications pop up, all saying something crude and vulgar.

Eddie’s shoulders deflate, the wind officially taken out of his sails. Richie should feel glad--if this fight had happened before a years worth of therapy, he probably would--but he doesn’t. He feels guilty. How did they even get here? Oh. Right.

They stand like that for a long moment; Eddie still holding Richie’s phone, unsure of what to do with it, and Richie with his hands clenched into fists in his pockets. Richie’s leg is bouncing restlessly. Eddie just looks at the floor.

Finally, Richie can’t take anymore and stomps past Eddie towards their _shared_ bedroom.

“Gonna shower,” he mutters, and doesn’t wait for a reply. It doesn’t matter, because Eddie doesn’t say anything to stop him.

Their condo has two bedrooms and two bathrooms, the main bedroom with its connecting bathroom, and the spare bedroom with the spare bathroom in the hallway. The spare bedroom was more like an office these days, what with Richie working from home, but there was still a queen sized bed shoved into one of the corners. For guests.

And, well, for nights like these.

Richie gathers his sleep clothes and walks out of their bedroom to the spare bathroom. He chooses the spare bathroom specifically because Eddie hates it, for some goddamn reason. Water pressure, or something. This will leave the main bathroom open in case Eddie needs to use it. Richie doesn’t even have to think about it, really. Just does it automatically.

In the shower, his mind is replaying all the dumb shit he said. And it was all super dumb. Typical Richie Tozier style.

“Why’d you have to say it like that, idiot,” Richie mutters. He can hardly hear himself over the sound of the water. “Why’d you even have to say anything at all? God you’re so fucking _annoying_ , why can’t you just shut the hell up, for once?”

If Eddie heard him talking to himself like this, he’d look up at him with those sad, doe eyes and ask him if he really thinks like that. Richie would sigh and say no, even though he really wants to say yes. At least, right now.

He takes too long in the shower. His skin is bright red and his glasses are just as fogged up as the mirror is, and when he walks back out into the living room, Eddie is gone.

The shower in the main bedroom turns on, though. So Richie was right after all.

He walks into their room and stands in front of the bathroom door. He can’t hear anything but the water rushing. He doesn’t know if that’s good or not.

With the heaviest of sighs, Richie grabs a handful of spare blankets from the closet to take to the living room. They haven’t fought like this in a long time, but Richie still remembers the first time. He can’t remember what it was about--probably therapy, or alcohol. Or both. He remembers stomping into the office and crashing on the bed for the night, not sleeping a wink because he had gotten so spoiled having Eddie next to him all night.

When he’d woken up in the middle of the night to piss, there was Eddie, still with bandages wrapped around his chest, sleeping on the goddamn sofa. Like an idiot.

Richie had wanted to shake him awake, but settled instead for loudly asking “What are you doing out here?!”

Eddie startled awake, barely holding back a wince in time (Richie saw it anyway). “R-Richie?”

“Yeah, numnuts, who else would it be?” He asked as he made his way over to the couch. “What the fuck are you thinking, man? Sleeping on the couch is exactly what the doctor said _not to do!”_

Eddie didn’t look at him, still mad from the night before. Richie huffed and held out his hands. “Come on, Eds, let’s get you back to bed.”

“No.”

Richie blinked. That was Eddie’s “I’m not joking, and I’m not moving” voice. Last time Richie had heard that had been when he told Myra he wasn’t going back to New York, that they were getting a divorce and no, they couldn’t talk it over in person.

Richie let his hands fall to his side. “Okay,” Richie said. “Why?”

Eddie still hadn’t looked up. “It’s too big.” He shrugged one of his shoulders towards the bedroom door. “The room. The bed…” He shook his head. “It’s too big. I can’t--” He pressed his lips together in a scowl. “I can’t do it. I just can’t.”

Richie had caved back then, and dragged Eddie back to their room with the promise that he’d stay with him, and go to at least _one_ AA meeting later in the week.

Since then, they’d only ever really slept apart if one of them was sick. It was usually Richie, since Eddie rarely ever got sick these days (one of the benefits of no longer living with someone with Munchausen by proxy). And although Eddie would insist that Richie take the spare room, the thought of Eddie sleeping on the sofa made him sick to his stomach. Besides, after a dose of NyQuil Richie could sleep just about anywhere.

So tonight, Richie will take the couch, like he always does. That way Eddie still gets a bed. He doesn’t even think about it, just does it.

He hears the shower turn off just as he’s taking off his glasses and getting comfortable, and a pit falls in his stomach. He doesn’t want to fight anymore tonight, which is selfish of him considering he’s the one who started it in the first place. But he knows Eddie will come out to the living room when he sees that Richie isn’t in bed. He knows that Eddie will want to talk more, because “we’re not supposed to go to bed angry, Rich, it’s bad for the longevity of our relationship.”

But Richie’s _tired_. So he pulls the blankets up to his chin and closes his eyes, like a coward. He’s still got a few minutes before Eddie comes out—he’s gotta floss, brush his teeth, gargle his mouthwash, trim his nose hairs, and Richie wishes he was joking, but he’s been living with the guy for a year now. He oughta know. And hopefully he’ll be fast asleep by the time he’s done.

He must have managed to doze off, though, because when Eddie shook his shoulder, he woke back up instead of pretending to be fast asleep like he planned.

Richie groans and blinks up at the Eddie-shaped blob.

“Richie…” the blob says. “We should...we should talk about this.”

Richie sighs and rubs his eyes. “Eddie, baby, can’t it wait until morning?”

“Not supposed to go to bed angry,” he says, just like Richie knew he would. Richie chuckles in spite of himself.

“‘m not angry, Eds. I just…” Richie huffs. “Just give me tonight, okay? I need to think about…” He gestures to his head. “About what I wanna say. Before I say dumb shit I don’t mean. More dumb shit I don’t mean.”

Eddie seems to consider this for a moment, and then nods. “But do you have to sleep out here to do it?”

“I’m gonna keep you up all night with my tossing and turning if I don’t.”

“That’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“Ya see, you say that _now_ ,” Richie says as he’s already putting his glasses back on and gathering the blankets. God, he’s such a sucker. “And I’m gonna remind you that you said that when you’re tired and grouchy in the morning.”

Eddie doesn’t respond, but he helps Richie fold the blankets and put them away, so it’s something.

* * *

* * *

As it turns out, Richie sleeps fairly well. He doesn’t wake up once during the night. They didn’t exactly fall asleep in a couple’s embrace like they normally do, but when Richie _does_ wake up, it’s because Eddie has to dislodge himself from Richie’s arms to go to the bathroom.

Richie doesn’t say anything or try to stop him, but he hums tiredly so that Eddie at least knows he’s awake.

He lays there for a while longer, waiting for Eddie to come back to bed. He rarely does that--he’s a “when I’m up, I’m up” kinda guy, much to Richie’s dismay. But every now and then, he’ll indulge in a lazy weekend.

Today doesn’t seem to be such a day, though, because the shower turns on to signal the start of Eddie’s Morning Routine ™.

_Oh well,_ Richie thinks as he rolls over onto his back, blindly staring at the ceiling. _Gives me some time to think._

He can practically see his therapist in his mind’s eye--an older woman with silver hair and a face covered in dark freckles, her feet pulled up into her chair and her clipboard lazily resting on her knees. She always seemed so at ease, but intimidating as all hell at the same time. Willing to call Richie out on his bullshit (re: his self-deprecation, manic thoughts and impulses, and, ding, ding, ding! Alcohol abuse), but never with the desire to hurt, or harm. There was always something kind in her eyes, something he could so easily picture, even now.

“Why did you get so upset yesterday, Richie?” she would ask, if she were here.

“Because Eddie called us “just friends” to his coworker.”

“Hm.” She would scribble something on her clipboard here. “And why did that bother you so badly?”

Richie rubs his eyes until he sees spots. Even then he can’t block out her face. “Because...fuck, because I’m tired of feeling ashamed and dirty when it comes to...you know.” He gestures to the wide bedroom. “Being in love with Eddie.”

“Okay,” she would say with a nod. “And how is him not sharing you with his coworkers different from you not sharing him with your fans online?”

Richie huffs. “Calling them “fans” is a little generous, don’t you think, Doc?”

“Okay. You’re deflecting, but okay.”

He grumbles. God, even like this she doesn’t pull any punches. “Eddie’s coworkers are safer. Smaller,” he explains. “Significantly less intimidating than the endless, screaming void that is the internet.”

“Maybe to you, but does Eddie feel that way? He has to see them a lot more often than you do.”

Richie blinks up at the ceiling, the image of his therapist slowly fading away. So _that’s_ where the conflict is, is it? To Eddie, the internet is nothing. The guy doesn’t have a Twitter, or an Instagram, and it’s coming up on the 1 Year Anniversary of him deleting his Facebook account (“Easier than explaining to a bunch of people I don’t even know that well that, yes, I am getting a divorce and, no, I don’t wanna catch up over brunch.”).

To Richie, the internet is a pulsating mass of eyes scrutinizing his every move, looking for any kind of leverage to use against him at any given moment. Richie shivers at the thought of rolling over to check his phone, so he doesn’t. For now.

And then, there’s the other side of the equation. To him, Eddie’s coworkers are strangers he would see once, maybe twice a year at holiday parties. To Eddie, these are people he sees five days out of the week, and he’s spent the better part of a year cultivating professional relationships with these people.

Okay. So, they both have very good points. As is often the case these days.

Richie yawns and stretches before he finally rolls out of bed. He can hear the shower turn off as he’s getting up, so that gives him a couple minutes left to get breakfast started.

He briefly considers barging in and being obnoxious while Eddie tries to brush his teeth. The image of him spitting mad with toothpaste dribbling down his chin reminds Richie of sleepovers during simpler times.

But no, not today. He has things he needs to make right, first.

Richie makes pancakes because it’s Sunday, damnit, and he’s not going to make work food (eggs, bacon, hash browns) on the weekend. Eddie usually makes breakfast on the weekends, and Richie during the week. Working from home has its perks, including giving him the opportunity to live his best House-Wife life.

Richie hopes his Apology Pancakes taste as good as Eddie’s Lazy Sunday Morning Pancakes, but he doubts it. (Eddie’s pretty damn good at making pancakes, so really it’s an unfair comparison to begin with.)

He’s just putting the pancake mix together when Eddie walks into the kitchen. He hears him before he sees him, the soft pat-pat-pat of his socked feet on the hardwood fills Richie’s heart with domestic, lovey-dovey bullshit, the sap.

“Mornin’, Eds,” he says without looking up from the bowl.

“Morning, Richie.” They had long since past the point of bickering over nicknames. Sometimes Richie misses it. Like now.

Richie says “So, I wanted to say--” just as Eddie goes “About last night--”

They stare at each other for a moment before laughing. God, he’s so in love. It’s gross, really.

“Let me go first,” Richie insists, turning to the stove to continue making breakfast. This was how Richie normally had his heart-to-hearts with Eddie---while doing something else. It had taken several couple’s therapy sessions before Eddie was able to be okay with this. Growing up in a home where he was forced to look his mother in the eye when speaking to her (and later having a wife that was the same way), Eddie was _convinced_ that Richie was either lying or just saying what he thought Eddie wanted to hear.

Meanwhile Richie _had_ to be doing something while he was talking, otherwise he couldn’t focus on what he wanted to say. He would get distracted by this, that, or the other thing. He had to be cooking, or folding laundry, or cleaning dishes. It used to drive his parents bonkers. But he had to do it to keep his train of thought.

“Please,” Richie continues. “I kinda started it in the first place, after all.”

Eddie looks like he wants to argue that, but he thankfully lets it go for now. “Okay, just don’t burn my pancakes.”

“Hey, I’m not that bad at pancakes.”

Eddie just takes a seat at the kitchen table and smiles at Richie’s back.

“So, uh, as I was saying,” Richie clears his throat as he pours out the first pancake. “I know it was kinda hypocritical of me to get mad like I did last night, and I’m sorry. I’m also sorry for interrupting you, like, a million times.” Richie sighs. “I’m trying to be...well, better about that.”

“I know you are, Richie,” Eddie says. “I’m sorry, too. For yelling. And, you know…” He looks down at his hands on the table. “For saying we were just friends to my coworker. It was just...it was an automatic thing, you know? I don’t know why. I just...panicked.”

“It’s okay, Eds. I get it.” Richie flips the pancake and winces. It’s a little burnt. Oh well, that’ll be Richie’s pancake, then. “And that’s something I wanted to talk about, too.” Richie takes a deep breath and turns to face Eddie. This is important, and he wants Eddie to know he’s serious.

“It’s okay if you don’t wanna tell your coworkers that we’re dating.”

Eddie blinks up at him. “Oh. Uh...okay.”

“I mean,” Richie turns back to his pancake when it starts smelling a little crispy. “You have to see them every day, and that’s super intimidating and I get it.” Richie flips his pancake onto a plate and gets started on Eddie’s next. “It was already pretty brave of you to come out to them in the first place, especially since you didn’t have to do it, you just...wanted to make my coming out a little easier on me. And it did, you know.” Richie looked back at Eddie over his shoulder. “Made it easier.”

Eddie seems surprised at the confession. “Good. I’m glad.”

“Yeah, so,” Richie turns back to the food. “If you don’t wanna tell your coworkers that you’re dating the funniest, most good-looking comedian on the planet--”

“Okay, Rich--”

Richie grins. “--and did I mention my big, swingin’ dick?”

“Several times, actually.”

“Oh, good.” Richie flips the pancake. Not burnt! Sweet. “Just making sure.” He can’t see it, but Eddie rolls his eyes.

“Anyway,” he continues. “It’s okay with me. I’ve thought about it, and I’m not angry anymore.” He turns off the stove and moves their plates over to the table. Eddie’s smiling, but it seems unnaturally giddy--like he knows something Richie doesn’t.

Richie frowns. “What’s with the look?”

“You’re the sweetest sometimes, you know that?” Eddie tells him as he stands to take his plate from Richie’s hands. He leans up to kiss him on the cheek for good measure.

“Sweet as cherry pie, Eddie?”

Eddie rolls his eyes again, but his smile never falters. “Sure, Rich.”

“Still doesn’t explain that face you made.”

“Well, it’s just..” Eddie rubs the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “I may have, well...I put myself down for our company’s 4th of July party...with a plus one?” Eddie gives him a hopeful look. “I responded to the email when I got out of the shower this morning.”

Richie blinks owlishly behind his glasses, a sight that never fails to make Eddie’s heart flutter.

“Oh.” Richie says, intelligently. “Uh...well...okay then.” July is only a couple weeks away. He can handle that.

“I can cancel if you want,” Eddie says quickly. “It was impulsive--I didn’t wanna lose my nerve, so I just did it.”

“No, no! It’s okay! I just…” Richie laughed. “God, we’re a mess sometimes.” Eddie laughs, too.

“Maybe, yeah.” He’s grinning stupidly, and Richie knows he’s smiling too. “Couldn’t imagine doing this with anyone else, though.”

It means more to Richie to hear that than anything.

And if, maybe, Richie posts a tasteful picture of Eddie with a mouthful of pancakes later on Twitter, well... Eddie won’t know any better about it.


End file.
